


Good Things

by wintermadethissoldier



Series: Good Things, Small Packages [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Crack Treated Seriously, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Ice Skating, M/M, Mother Hen Bucky Barnes, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Slow Burn, Sort of? - Freeform, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers is Bad at Feelings, Worried Bucky Barnes, bucky barnes is STRESSED, bucky barnes is very graceful, buddy me too, don't give steve peanuts, really not crack but quite amusing, steve doesn't go back to the 40s, steve has a metal arm kink, they're both hot messes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 05:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintermadethissoldier/pseuds/wintermadethissoldier
Summary: Steve came back from returning the stones without the serum. Now him and Bucky are building a new life as retired heroes, which includes Steve constantly giving Bucky high blood pressure. Steve finally gets his tiny head out of his ass and starts to realize he's falling for Bucky.A lil collection of drabbles to go with Small Packages.





	Good Things

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I did it. And for some reason, I was feeling in the holiday mood. Christmas in June, y'know? If you haven't read the first installation of this fic (Small Packages), go back and do so!
> 
> Title is self explanatory. Good things come in small packages. Bucky's a good guy and Steve's, well, small now.

Comfort didn’t come easily to Bucky, not after decades of being the Winter Soldier. Everything had been about what was most efficient—protein blends fed through tubes instead of real food, sleeping (if at all) in the barest of living conditions, brutalizing his body to get missions done. He had only just started getting used to taking care of himself while he was in Wakanda, but he still wasn’t overly concerned with the details. He was pretty sure having a bed and clean water and some source of ventilation was all he really _needed_. After all, he was the goddamn Winter Soldier. He didn’t need luxury.

But now he was apartment hunting with a 100-pound Steve Rogers and realizing just how necessary luxuries could be. Money wasn’t an object for them anymore, but the places they looked at still put Bucky on edge. If it was just him, he would’ve taken whatever was highest up and had the fewest windows and been done with it. But now he’s got a retired Captain America that is small enough to fit under his arm and has an _eye for aesthetics_ and Bucky doesn’t think his blood pressure has ever been this high.

It started with the windows.

Bucky was sure that they made quite a sight—the two of them facing off against each other in the living room of some ritzy Brooklyn Heights apartment. Bucky had an easy 150 pounds and at least 8 inches on Steve now, but he still faced off against him, eyes narrowed and arms crossed like he wasn’t fun-sized and staring down the world’s best assassin.

“We can see the skyline.” Steve said defiantly, pointing at the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“And the rest of the city can see _us_.” Bucky shot back. “We’d be completely exposed. I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation. How did you live undercover for two years?”

The real estate agent’s eyes flicked between the two of them like she was watching the world’s scariest game of tennis, clutching her clipboard nervously.

“We’re high up! Bucky, we aren’t on the run anymore. We aren’t even superheroes; we’re just normal people n– are you even listening to me?” Steve protested, watching Bucky as he walks over to the window.

Bucky was silent for two beats as he glanced out the wall of windows. “There are at _least_ thirteen places a sniper could get a clear shot into this room _on the rooftops alone_. This isn’t up for discussion, Steve. It doesn’t matter how retired you are, people are still going to want to come after you. And me, for that matter.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re having a small dog complex.”

Steve sputtered. The real estate agent’s eyes went comically wide in terror.

“We aren’t interested, I’m afraid. Come on, Steve.” Bucky stalked towards the door, trying to hide how absolutely anxious he is surrounded by windows on all sides. The brainwashing Shuri could get out, but not the skills they ingrained in him; nor, unfortunately, the reflexes that made his pulse spike every time he was out in the open.

It didn’t get much better.

Every showing was a fresh nightmare for him—Steve falling from an easily-unlatched window, Steve suffocating from a fire in the apartment because he couldn’t run down the several flights of stairs, Steve bleeding out on the floor because someone climbed in through the fire escape. Earthquakes weren’t common in New York as far as he knew, but he briefly became obsessed with finding an earthquake-proof apartment building in the city. Their temporary room at Strange’s place was covered with color-coded binders and internet printouts of apartments and research. Bucky was quite proud of himself, all things considered. Steve was precariously close to pulling all of his hair out.

Eventually, Steve folded to Bucky’s inane demands and got them a townhouse in Brooklyn, if only so that Bucky won’t spend half of his time punching through the drywall and strangling any neighbor that dares to make noise after Steve is asleep. Bucky plead Shuri out of a whole city’s worth of Wakanda tech to reinforce the house, claiming it was for his mental health. It wasn’t really a lie. He knew that the 21st century was a much safer place for pre-serum Steve to live, but Bucky couldn’t shake the bone-deep anxiety he had always carried with him when it came to Steve. He had spent far too many years pulling him out of fights and sitting by his sick-bed to shake that kind worry, even after his brains had been scrambled to shit. And now Bucky was contending with a Steve Rogers that had gotten quite used to being a superhero that could bench press 2,000 pounds and punch through tanks like they were paper. He too often forgot that he was now the size of the average middle schooler, which did absolutely nothing to alleviate the heart condition Bucky was positive he was developing.

The first time he had caught Steve trying to go on a run, he had nearly keeled over in the foyer.

“What are you doing?” Bucky blinked at him, trying Very Hard not to fold his arms across his chest and look disapproving. Well, at least he managed to keep himself from doing half of that.

“Going for a run.” Steve answered innocently, straightening from tying his shoes.

“Steve.” Bucky warned, crossing his arms over his chest. Dammit, he lost that battle with himself far too quick.

“Just for a little bit! It can’t hurt.”

“You have _asthma_.” Bucky stressed, throwing his hands up. He really was trying not to be as horribly overprotective as Steve had accused of him of, but the damn boy is making it near-impossible with how willfully he tries to get himself killed.

“And now they have better inhalers! Bucky, you can’t keep me locked up all day.” Steve protested, already starting to glare at him. Bucky blew out a long breath, counting backwards from 10 in his head.

“Do you even have your inhaler?” Steve’s eyes dropped guiltily as an answer and Bucky sighed, pulling one out of his pocket and tossing it to Steve. “I’m coming with you.”

They made it four blocks before Steve doubled over, puffing on his inhaler and trying to convince Bucky that he’s _completely_ fine. Bucky ended up having to carry him back, smugly whistling “Here Comes the Bride” as Steve groaned in his arms.

“Don’t worry, Rogers. I’ll make sure to treat you real gentle.”

Steve blamed the flush in his cheeks on the asthma attack.

 

* * *

 

Neither of them had ever been particularly good cooks. Whatever kitchen prowess Sarah possessed was decidedly not passed onto Steve, who ended up burning water and setting something on fire whenever he was near a stove. Bucky hadn’t been much better, all of his food coming out largely bland and vaguely food-shaped, always _technically_ edible. Neither of them had really had to worry about it since, surviving off rations in the war, Bucky living on nutrition IVs as the Soldier, and Steve having enough money and fame to never have to worry about cooking since he woke up. When they had moved into their new house, Bucky had declared the kitchen appliances entirely off-limits for Steve, citing at least 8 instances where he had almost set fire to their Brooklyn apartment in the 30s. While he wasn’t wrong, Steve couldn’t help feeling a bit wounded. After all, didn’t they have smoke alarms for this very purpose now?

They ended up eating a lot of take-out. But Steve, stir-crazy from not constantly being on a mission and tired of Bucky suggesting they play the “Don’t Move Out of Bucky’s Sight” game, threatened to go on a hunger strike if they didn’t start eating outside of the house once in a while.

Steve had largely been kidding, but Bucky’s face had blanched an impressive shade of porcelain at the prospect of Steve dipping below 100. He wanted to try a Thai place that Sam had recommended, and after Bucky squinting at the online menu on his phone like it was personally responsible for the murder of JFK (instead of him), he had agreed. The place had a relaxed vibe and Steve was thrilled to be out in public, especially now that people rarely recognized him. As far as most of the public knew, Captain America had gone into a quiet retirement and no one had heard from him since. All calls were now rerouted to Sam’s phone, where Bucky regularly tried to change the voicemail message to something ridiculous and vaguely incriminating. Even if Steve had to special order his pad Thai without peanuts due to his allergy coming back, at least he could carry on with the parts he loved most about having downtime as an Avenger. Hell, maybe even he was hopeful enough tonight that Bucky was starting to relax into his role as best friend rather than Very Concerned Mother Hen.

But then the food came out.

“Hey!” Steve objected, chopsticks poised as Bucky snagged his dish from his side of the table. Bucky completely ignored him, staring into the pad Thai like it held the secrets of the universe. He visibly stiffened, picking off a piece of roasted peanut and holding it in front of him.

“Buck, it’s okay, this place is busy I’m sure they forgot. I can just pick them off.” He started, already knowing he had lost the battle as Bucky called over their waiter, standing up. Steve groaned, burying his burning face in his hands.

“Can I help you?” The waiter asked, his gaze flickering nervously between Steve and Bucky.

“My buddy here ordered some of your pad Thai _without_ the peanuts. He’s got a life-threatening allergy. Now,” Bucky says, his tone overly casual as he held out the offending peanut out to the waiter in his flesh hand. “ _This_ was in his food. You’re all very lucky I checked, and that I also have three Epi-Pens on myself at any given moment.” He leaned in close to the waiter, his voice dangerously low. “Otherwise a lawsuit would have been the least of your troubles. You really want to be known as the restaurant that killed Captain America?” The wood splintered under the table where Bucky was gripping it with his metal hand, causing the waiter to jump.

“ _Former_ Captain America.” Steve corrected miserably from his hands, wishing he had just eaten the damn peanut. Then he wouldn’t have had to deal with any of this.

“N-No sir. Not at all sir.” The waiter sputtered, visibly shaking and unable to take his eyes off of Bucky’s metal arm.

“Good.” Bucky flicked the peanut at the waiter’s forehead and shoved the plate of pad Thai into his hands without breaking eye contact. “Not. One. Fucking. Peanut.”

The waiter disappeared in an instant.

“He didn’t cook the food, Bucky.” Steve peeked at Bucky through his fingers, the other man busy brushing away splinters before he sat back down. “We’re gonna be banned from this place forever.”

“I’m not watching you go into anaphylactic shock in the middle of fucking Manhattan.” Bucky crossed his arms but Steve didn’t miss the way Bucky avoided his gaze, the way he always has when he’s trying to hide his feelings. And even though Steve would’ve been the one slowly dying from asphyxiation had he actually eaten his food, he was struck with a pang of sadness for Bucky. Steve had lost himself in guilt and depression each time he had lost Bucky, had felt the pain and panic deep in his bones every time Bucky had gotten shot on the battlefield. Bucky, who had never been forthright with his emotions even before the war, was understandably still processing more than Steve could imagine. Perhaps this was just his way of coping with everything, trying to control Steve’s environment so much that he could never possibly be hurt, all so that he could control his own emotions, in a way. He was downright terrified, Steve realized, of losing him again. They had spent the past 80-plus years losing each other at every turn and now—now they were in a stable situation. There was no imminent battle, no cryo, no Zola, no snap. It was just the two of them trying to figure out how to live in a world that they still didn’t quite know how they fit into. They had gotten each other back at the end of the day, and they weren’t going to let each other go; Bucky just happened to be far more anxious about it than Steve.

It warmed Steve’s heart more than he was willing to admit, especially to Bucky. He might be fooling everyone else—especially this particular waiter—with his gruff exterior and his intimidating metal arm, but Steve just saw his best friend, broken and doing the best he could for Steve. He felt like he was onto a revelation, something that been hiding in the recesses of his mind for as long as he could remember, but his train of thought was interrupted by the waiter coming back with his peanutless pad Thai and profuse apologies.

They didn’t pay for their meal. Steve found himself smiling at Bucky over his noodles, much to Bucky’s consternation.

“Stop that. I _will_ stab you with one of these Epi-Pens.”

“I’m not scared of you.” Steve meant it as a joke, but the flicker of relief in Bucky’s eyes shut him up immediately.

 

* * *

 

Winter brought with it its own set of challenges. They had working heat and actual insulation in the house, which made things a billion times easier this time around. Not that Bucky didn’t miss the excuse to share a bed with Steve, but he was safer now. Going outside, however, was another question entirely.

“You can’t be serious.” Steve stared at Bucky incredulously as he laid out an army’s worth of winter clothing on Steve’s bed.

“I am absolutely serious.” Bucky said pleasantly, stepping away from the bed and revealing his handiwork. “If you want to go out with Sam and I, you’re putting it on.”

Steve gaped at the mountain of clothing in front of him. Bucky had apparently raided an entire winter-weather section of a department store, laying out shirts and sweaters, a long winter jacket that looks like it was meant for Antarctic scientists, two pairs of gloves, at least three pairs of socks, heavy-duty boots, a scarf, hats, and even fucking long johns.

“It’s cold.” Bucky shrugged as way of explanation, walking out of the room with a wave tossed over his shoulder. “Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

A good half hour passed before Bucky heard a small, frustrated noise from inside Steve’s room. He pushed the door open and barely kept himself from bursting out laughing. Steve could barely put his arms down, a bright blue marshmallow glaring daggers at him. “Need help?” He asked innocently, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“I am the world’s first superhero. I survived being frozen in solid ice for 66 years. I have fought Thanos with my bare hands. I can wield Mjolnir. I am–”

“Unable to zip your own jacket.” Bucky finished for him, crossing the room and dropping to a knee in front of Steve. He zipped it up for him, quirking an eyebrow at Steve’s flustered face. “Don’t worry, Stevie. I’ll keep you safe now.” Bucky pats his arm, rising to his feet and crossing his arms. “Sam’s gonna _love_ this.”

It took Sam a good fifteen minutes to stop howling with laughter, and another ten to convince him to stop referring to Steve as a “Wild Bluefooted Booby” on his Snapchat story. If looks could kill, Bucky’s positive all of them would have been on the floor in seconds. Fortunately, Bucky had bundled Steve up enough that all that came through was a set of angry eyes and muffled shouts that _probably_ weren’t “I ducking love you two!”. Bucky would have been content with just walking around to see the Christmas lights, but Steve had pouted so severely for days on end that Bucky folded and conceded to ice skating. With limits, of course.

“I am not using one of those.” Steve mumbled underneath his scarf, pointing at the bright orange seal that was supposed to serve as a walker for children learning how to skate.

“Steve, you didn’t even know how to skate when you were huge. I’m not gonna sit back and watch you get a concussion. Amnesia’s no fun, trust me.” And though Steve flinched slightly from Bucky’s jab, he settled into what Bucky had started dubbing his Angry Chihuahua pose, arms crossed and eyes steely.

“I did not drag my ass all the way over here to watch you two bicker like an old couple.” Sam cuts in, waving a hand between them. “Well, I guess you do live in sexless union and are both like a hundred years old. Point still stands.”

Steve was suddenly infinitely grateful that he can blame the rush of heat to his cheeks on the cold. “I’ll be fine, Bucky. But Captain America is not going to use a goddamn ice skating trainer.” Steve pushed past the two of them, waddling out onto the ice.

“Technically _I’m_ Captain America now. I’m not using a damn seal either, though.” Sam grumbled, but Bucky’s already out on the ice with Steve, fitting his hand in Steve’s like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Steve sighed, a bit too dramatically if you ask Bucky, but didn’t pull away, letting Bucky keep him steady as he figures out how to move his feet. Bucky pushes in in front of him, skating backwards as he takes both of Steve’s hands. “Push out, like you’re gliding. It’s not like walking– there, yeah, like that.” He said, watching Steve’s feet.

“When did you get so good at ice skating?” Steve complained, a little distracted by Bucky’s easy grace.

“They didn’t call me the Winter Soldier for nothing.” Bucky winked, pulling Steve a little faster as he pushed back on his stakes. “C’mon, Sam’s on the other side already.”

\---

Eventually, Steve convinced Bucky to go off on his own, clutching to the wall with Sam supervising at his side. As much as Bucky’s mother hen attitude had been driving him up a wall, he knew it all came from a good place. He felt guilty for making him worry like this, to have to deal with a tiny Steve that’s far more reliant on Bucky than he ever had been before. Before, it had just been polio and back alley bullies he had to contend with—now an entire slew of supervillains or disgruntled Hydra agents could come knocking at any time. He wanted Bucky to relax, to have a little fun that didn’t involve fireman-carrying Steve back to their house. And he definitely looked more peaceful like this, gliding around the ice between couples and families clinging to each other as they tried not to fall over their own skates. Steve couldn’t deny he was mesmerized by the way Bucky moved, the way his deadly grace translated perfectly onto the ice and how easy he made it all seem. He would love to draw him like this. For...artistic purposes, of course. He was glad for the first time that evening that his face was mostly covered with a scarf; dammit, he needed to stop blushing so much. Did he blush this much in the 40s? He couldn’t remember.

Even though he never learned how to ice-skate as a supersoldier, he does miss that kind of easy surety that his body could carry him through whatever he needed it to. He misses the way he could bounce back from injuries and never got sick, how he could lift the couch to vacuum underneath it without getting trapped. But if he had to revert back to his pre-serum self, he know he had won the lottery by reverting back in a time where Bucky was willing and able to stick by him through the whole thing. Bucky, who had gone after him in back alleys and spooned soup into his cracked and feverish lips far before he became a super soldier. Bucky was the last person alive in this world that knew him before, knew how to deal with his tiny self. Steve had hoped that people would leave him alone after he retired, but even his optimistic mind had to contend that there would always be people that were out for his blood. But he had Bucky, the best protector he could ask for with his skills and unquestioning loyalty to Steve, even now. Steve couldn’ name the feeling that swelled in his chest when he thought about, was perhaps a bit afraid of it, but he knew he was overwhelmingly grateful. Even in the overbearing stages.

\---

They came back in high spirits, the tip of Steve’s nose bright red and a huge smile plastered across his face. Even Bucky’s shoulders had relaxed a bit. He had missed Sam, had missed some sort of normalcy in the face of everything that had happened. There was still a Nat-sized hole when the three of them were together that couldn’t be ignored, but he knew that she would kick his ass if he did nothing but sit around and mope about it. She had wanted to see him happy more than anyone else.

And Steve was happy, despite everything. He was living with his best friend again and both of them had time to actually catch up and talk. He was refocusing on his art and seeing his friends outside of planning their next attack. It felt like letting a breath go that he had been holding for way too long, relaxing into the mundane everyday rather than letting adrenaline rule his life. Even if he was now almost half a foot shorter than he used to be.

He sighed as he tried to shake off his gloves, starting the long process of taking off his six million layers. Bucky had already shucked off his bomber jacket and scarf, combing his hair into a ponytail with his fingers. “Here.” He wrapped an elastic around his hair, walking over to unzip Steve’s jacket. He was rewarded with a huff from Steve, waving him off with a mitten still hanging off of his hand.

“I’m _fine_.” He insisted, trying to wriggle out of Bucky’s grasp as he pulled off Steve’s scarf. “Buck, _stop_ I can take off my own damn clothes.”

Something unreadable passed on Bucky’s face before his hands are on Steve’s shoulders, pressing him up against the wall. “Stop squirming and let me help you.” His voice was quiet, looking down at Steve with something inscrutable that Steve can’t—or doesn’t want to—identify. Steve tried to blame the rush of heat on the fact that he was currently wearing at least six layers and gulped, his chest suddenly tight. Bucky took his silence as acquiescence and stepped back a bit, his fingers already working on Steve’s jacket buttons. Some part of Steve’s brain understood that this was ridiculous, that Bucky was being ridiculous and overprotective again and he can _take off his own damn clothes_. But the majority of his brain was going haywire, trying to figure out what the hell is happening with him. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he shouldn’t breathe or the entire spell would be shattered and Bucky would disappear into thin air. Again.

He felt the cool metal of Bucky’s left hand against his feverish skin through the fabric of his shirt as he finishes unbuttoning the last flannel before his undershirt—God, why was that giving him the shakes? He blew out a breath that’s far shakier than he would have liked and straightened. “That was unnecessary.”

“I wasn’t about to watch you bean your head against the banister trying to get out of all of this.” Bucky said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Night, Rogers.” His voice is just an octave too low as his hands reach for Steve’s face, almost like he could cup his face and–

He slid his thumbs under the rim of Steve’s hat, pulling it off and ruffling the blonde strands that were defying the laws of gravity. Then he was gone, whistling the chorus to some Top 40’s song as he headed upstairs.

Steve was left blinking at the space where Bucky was, suddenly extremely thankful that Bucky made him put on three layers of pants that he hadn’t removed. He paused for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath and slow his heart rate—damn his new lungs. He closed his eyes, letting his head tip against the wall with a groan. _Christ_ , he was really in for it now, wanting his best friend in the worst of ways.

 

* * *

 

It was the first Christmas they had celebrated together since 1944, snowed in somewhere in Italy and swapping stories in lieu of gifts. Steve hadn’t really celebrated Christmas since 2015, back when Pepper organized Avengers holiday parties and they had a coherent team. Him and Nat had always seen each other around Christmas after the snap, if only to eat too much Chinese takeout and watch horrible movies, but it wasn’t a proper celebration. Nothing felt celebratory during those five years. Christmas hadn’t even made it on Bucky’s radar for decades for obvious reasons, and he was almost a little surprised when Steve started to decorate the house.

He found him one day standing on a ladder, reaching up to hang a string of garland over their entryway. While Bucky would have, under normal circumstances, taken the opportunity to stare at Steve’s ass; unfortunately, his broken brain couldn’t stop showing him Steve falling from the ladder and breaking his skinny neck.

“Steven _Grant_ Rogers.” Bucky’s voice was dangerously low, the kind he usually only brought out for interrogations. Steve squeaked—fucking _squeaked_ —and whipped around on the ladder, his eyes wide and guilty. But his momentum had carried him too far and he started falling backwards, one arm pinwheeling while the other stubbornly refused to let go of the garland. Bucky was behind him in an instant, letting him fall into his arms with a gentle “oof!”. Steve blinked up at him, bewildered and looking quite ashamed of himself.

“Can’t stop falling for me, can you?” Bucky teased, setting him down gently and taking the garland from his hand. “Mind explaining what the hell you were doing?” His tone was casual, but Steve knew him better than anyone and could see the panic and anger beneath it all.

“Decorating?” It came out more like a question, Steve’s voice higher than he would have liked it to be.

“Can’t you deck the halls or whatever without giving me a heart attack and yourself a hospital visit?” Bucky sighed, reaching up and hanging the garland on its hook easily. Steve huffed in frustration despite himself. “If you want a tree, it better be a little one.”

“I actually already ordered one. It’s, uh...a bit taller than me.” Steve twisted his fingers together, trying to look as innocent as possible. “You can help decorate it!”

Bucky ran his right hand over his face, somehow aging twenty years in the span of fifteen seconds. “Like last time, when we made a tree out of beer cans and a rat knocked it over in the middle of the night?”

“I’m 105 years old and I still have never heard that high-pitched a noise come out of a grown man.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Was that before or after you grabbed my leg thinking it was the baseball bat?”

“I was trying to _defend_ us from an intruder.”

“My hero.” Steve quipped dryly, smiling at Bucky’s mortified face. He had missed this, just joking with Bucky rather than discussing his imminent doom.

“I’m not helping you decorate that damn tree.”

\---

Bucky ended up helping him decorate that damn tree, because he was nothing if not absolutely whipped by a 100 pound troublemaker with an awful case of puppy dog eyes. Steve had shoved a box of ornaments into his hands and given him instructions to decorate the top half of the tree while he ducked under Bucky’s arms and hung ornaments on the bottom half. It made Bucky extremely worried that he was accidentally going to step on Steve, and he had to keep focusing on the stupid happy faces on the bear ornaments Steve had picked out rather than the fact that Steve was uncomfortably close to his crotch for a good hour.

Steve handed him the star, a Captain America Limited Edition Tree Star—the cheeky bastard—with a grin. “Go ahead, giraffe.”

Bucky just rolled his eyes, pushing it back into his hands. He knelt on the ground, patting his back. “C’mon, up you go. You bought the damn tree, you put on the damn star.”

Steve huffed but obliged, climbing onto Bucky’s back and desperately trying not to think about the strong muscles pressed against his chest. “We haven’t done this since I was like, 17.” He commented, trying his very best not to react as Bucky secured his legs and stood up, lifting him like he weighed nothing. Which was kind of true now.

“Yeah, when you got into that fight and they started chasing after both of us. Not my fault you couldn’t run.” Bucky rolled his eyes even though Steve couldn’t see, angling him towards the top of the tree. “You were such a dumbass. Four against one, Steve? God, you almost killed me back then.”

“I didn’t know he had friends!” Steve protested, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he reached out with the star. He didn’t miss the way his heart swooped with the realization that Bucky was remembering more, offering more details about their past life without Steve pressing whatsoever. He didn’t know what he could give the smartest person in the galaxy for Christmas, but he was going to at least write Shuri the most heartfelt letter she had ever seen.

He leaned a bit more forward, positioning the star on top of the tree with a happy hum as he switched in on. A little on the nose, but perfect to him. They sat in comfortable silence for a few beats, taking in the lights and their day’s handiwork. And then Steve became far too aware that his face was still mere centimeters away from Bucky’s, his lips almost touching the shell of his ear. He wasn’t positive, but he was pretty sure that Bucky wasn’t breathing.

Before he could control his stupid, impulsive brain, his lips were already forming words. “Merry Christmas, Buck.” He said softly, perhaps a little too low for what was considered appropriate.

Bucky was dead silent for several beats before Steve felt him take a breath. “It’s November, Steve.”

 

* * *

 

Christmas was a quiet affair. Sam had promised his nieces he would be in Boston for Christmas and Steve hadn’t really felt like pulling teeth to see who was available out of the Avengers. It was their first Christmas with everyone back and without Nat and Tony—he figured everyone needed space to process. Besides, some selfish part of him wanted it to just be him and Bucky together for Bucky’s first real Christmas since 1944. He was still trying to figure out what the hell he was feeling and why the he was feeling it, but he didn’t really want it to stop. Bucky made him flustered in a way that he hadn’t felt since the war and he was desperately trying to wrack his mind for why _now_. Was it just because it was the first time in 80 years he had been able to sit and think about everything for more than three seconds? Because this was the first time he had Bucky around for more than a few hours and was starting to let himself believe that he wasn’t going to slip through his fingers again?

He didn’t know. But he did know that he couldn’t get him out of his head—even more so than usual—and he was having a harder time controlling himself. He blushed so easily nowadays and Bucky seemed to get a huge kick out of it, teasing him at every available opportunity just to get a rise out of him. He had put up fucking mistletoe everywhere just to watch Steve sputter when he walked underneath it, his face an impressive shade of red. He had never been like this, not really; he wasn’t a virgin, for Christ’s sake. But there was something about Bucky that turned him into a bashful, blushing idiot. Maybe it was the way that Bucky had started relaxing, his edges slowly smoothing out around Steve as he started to laugh and joke more. It could be the protective stance he took over him in public like he was running point on Steve, or the noise he made in the back of his throat that could almost be construed as a growl when anyone got too close to him. Or perhaps it was the way he pressed Steve up against the wall after they were done ice-skating and how Steve’s brain went white and fuzzy every time he remembered it; or the way that stupid fucking metal arm of his could ruffle Steve’s hair and stop bullets in the same breath. Oh fuck, he was _not_ about to start having a metal arm kink on top of all of this.

But he was positive Bucky didn’t feel the same way, because he was sure that would have come up at some point and he was still in recovery. Steve didn’t want to fuck with that by bringing in his own feelings into the mix; Bucky already felt responsible for him. He wouldn’t tear him apart like that. It didn’t make things easier, though.

They ate Chinese take-out on the floor by the fireplace, blankets draped over their laps as they traded jokes and stories. Steve’s heart felt like it was close to bursting with how goddamn _content_ he was, despite everything that happened in the past year. Something like peace had settled on his shoulders as he swayed to the jazz Christmas music playing from the speakers, sipping hot chocolate and allowing himself glimpses of Bucky in the firelight.

“Wanna open presents?” Steve suggested, tipping his glass towards the small pile underneath the tree. It was more for tradition than anything, and Steve was beyond thrilled to see Bucky’s face when he opened his. Bucky made a sound of assent, leaning back and grabbing the first two. He slid Steve’s over to him, trying his best to keep a shit-eating grin off of his face. “You first, Captain Christmas.”

Steve rolled his eyes—really, Bucky had been slacking on his nicknames as of late—and started tearing off the paper on the wrapped box. He stared blankly at the box for several moments, then lifted his eyes to gape incredulously at Bucky.

“A hamster ball.” He deadpanned.

“A _human_ hamster ball.” Bucky corrected, looking like he was two seconds away from losing his shit.

“And what, Barnes, do you expect me to do with a hamster ball?” Steve quirked an eyebrow, his voice dangerously level.

Bucky, for his part, looked like he was relying on 70 years of self-control training now to burst out laughing. “It’s got an air filter. We can go to the park or something. I can roll you around a bit.”

Steve crumpled the discarded paper into a ball and calmly threw it at Bucky, hitting him square in the forehead. He may have lost his muscle mass, but he hadn’t lost his aim.

Bucky just gave him a smile that could devour Steve whole and started ripping it into his present. It was Steve’s turn to grin like a madman as Bucky held up a Bedazzler kit, looking disgruntled.

“Do I want to know?” Bucky sounded both weary and about two seconds from lunging for Steve’s throat. And not in a good way.

“I think your arm needs some...pizzaz. It’s not nearly as shiny as the old one.” Steve gestured in the general direction of his metal arm, which Bucky was holding a bit more protectively to his chest.

“Do you know how horrified Shuri would be if you were suggesting to _Bedazzle_ this piece of art?”

“She was actually very on board. She gave me some glue that’ll make ‘em stick better.” He gave Bucky another cheeky grin, leaning back on his hands. “If you’re sticking me in a hamster ball, the least you can do is give yourself some sparkles on your arm as compensation.”

“The tabloids would love that, I’m sure.” Bucky mumbled, tossing the box to the side. “Okay, your turn.” He turned his gaze back to Steve with an intensity that made him want to squirm, not moving towards the remaining packages under the tree.

“Well you gotta give me something, Buck.” Steve said lightly, his nerves knocked loose from the way Bucky was looking at him.

Bucky scooted closer to Steve, their crossed knees bumping together. He was silent a few more seconds, like he was psyching himself up for something. Or trying to convince himself that whatever he was about to do wasn’t a totally stupid idea.

“Steve, do you want me to kiss you?” Bucky asked, his voice soft.

Steve felt like the air had been punched out of him, his ears ringing. He couldn’t have heard Bucky right, damn his pre-serum ears. He felt heat rushing up to his face, clear as day in the light of the fire. “What?” He asked dumbly, his mind still struggling to catch up with anything that was going on.

“My brain might be swiss cheese but even I can see how you look at me lately. And I’ve been waiting for you to do anything about it, but I realized that I’d never forgive myself if I don’t at least take a chance to get you out of your own damn head. Because I know you, Steve, and I know you would rather think yourself sick over this for years than actually do shit about it. And I’ve waited too fucking long for that.” Bucky continued to hold his gaze, the only indication that he was nervous the slight twitch in his jaw he had always had.

Steve just blinked at him, still stunned. Because nothing that Bucky had said had been wrong, because he knew him better than anyone else on the planet. But, wait. “Too long?” Steve parroted, apparently incapable of higher brain function.

“God, you really are thick as a rock, aren’t you?” There’s no malice behind Bucky’s words, just a weary exhaustion Steve hasn’t heard from him. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I _met_ you Stevie. And while it was fine to keep that a secret during the 1900s, it’s fucking 2023 and I’ve died twice and you brought me back both times and I’m so fucking tired of pretending. I can’t do it, not with you.”

The only coherent thought that goes through Steve’s head is, _Wow, he should give me the number of his therapist._

“Steve?” Bucky leaned in closer, like he’s trying to check for signs of life in Steve’s eyes. Steve blinked again, only able to nod. Fuck, maybe his brain was frying. Could it do that? It never did that in the 40s.

“Steve, do you want me to kiss you?” Bucky’s voice edged on anxiety, and not the kind he had when Steve was trying to do jumping jacks without his inhaler.

“ _Yes_.” Steve breathed, his voice embarrassingly ragged. “Fuck, Bucky, _yes_.”

That’s all Bucky needed, leaning forward and cupping Steve’s face in his. A shiver shot up Steve’s spine at the cool metal of Bucky’s hand on his hot skin and—okay, yeah, fuck it, he’s got a metal arm kink. Bucky pressed his lips against Steve’s, soft and gentle and everything the world thought Bucky Barnes wasn’t. And Steve opened for him, tilting his head and kissing him back like it was the most natural fucking thing in the world. Because it was, and Steve had been a damn fool to take over 90 years to figure out that _this_ was what he wanted. Steve ran his fingers down Bucky’s forearms, anchoring himself there as he ran his tongue over Bucky’s lower lip. Bucky shuddered, pulling back ever so slightly and looking at Steve with blown pupils and a wrecked expression.

“Not too fast. I can’t– I don’t want to hurt you.” He whispered, almost to himself.

“You aren’t going to break me.” Steve tugged him back, already addicted and half-lidded.

“Is that a promise?” Bucky murmured, his lips mere centimeters from Steve’s.

“It’s a challenge.” Steve closed the gap between them, yanking on Bucky’s arms with all of his pre-serum strength to pull Bucky on top of him.


End file.
